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“Talk,” I say, my voice hard—sharp like a blade honed for business. Nothing like the rough murmur I used on her skin last night—low, slow, the kind you use when you’ve got something in your hands you don’t want the world touching.

“We got hit. Hard.”

His voice is flat, but the tightness in his jaw gives him away. He hands me a tablet, and I know before I even look that it’s bad. The screen lights up with grainy security footage—night vision,timestamped from just a few hours ago. One of our trucks was parked on a desolate road, its sides riddled with bullet holes like someone had emptied an entire magazine into it without hesitation.

The camera angle shifts, flickering, and I see it—movement in the corner. The driver stumbles out from our truck, already bleeding, already too late. Then he drops. Limp.

Lifeless.

“Driver’s dead. Shot twice in the chest. Didn’t even get a chance to radio it in.”

“Fuck,” I snap, fury and dread cutting through me. My men bust their asses for us. I don’t take it lightly when one goes down.

Even though it happens more often than one thinks.

The next frame shows an empty cargo hold.

“What was stolen?” I ask, through gritted teeth.

“Shipment out of Naples. We lost everything,” he says, quietly now. “The whole damn load’s gone.”

That shipment consisted of contraband worth two million dollars.

“Who the hell was behind this?” I ask, handing Nicolo back the tablet. I clench my fists, feel my knuckles turn white as they seek revenge, but I need someone to deliver it on.

“It was D’Angelo, but that’s not all.” Nicolo hesitates, which isn’t like him. He’s been my right hand since we were teenagers, back when my father first started grooming me to take over. He doesn’t hesitate, not with me.

“I’m listening.”

“The Costas are backing him now.”

My jaw tightens. The Costas. They’re old blood and old money. They came to power and kept it by staying neutral for generations, always content to manage their legitimate businesses and keep their hands clean while families like mine and D’Angelo’s fought for control of everything else.

“Confirmed?” I ask, though I can see the answer in the hard line of his mouth.

“Aldo Costa was seen meeting with D’Angelo last night. Our guy inside says they’ve formed an alliance.”

The car weaves through morning traffic, heading toward the outskirts of the city where our compound sits. I stare out the window, not seeing the streets passing by, seeing instead the shifting pieces on the board. The Costas have resources we don’t—political connections, legitimate business fronts, generations of respectability. D’Angelo has the hunger, the ruthlessness. Together, they’re a threat I can’t ignore.

“Your father wants to meet,” Nicolo adds, looking up from his phone. “He’s on his way over to yours.”

I nod and turn back to the window, but all I see is her—Chiara. The way she looked at me last night, wide-eyed and aching, like I was the only thing in her world. The way her body arched for me—mine, all mine. She didn’t fake it like the others. No rehearsed moans or pretty lies. Just raw, breathless sounds pulled straight from her soul. Sounds I dragged out of her. Sounds that branded themselves into me.

I close my eyes, forcing the image away. One night. That’s all it was supposed to be. All it can be.

Now, I’ve got to get my head back in the game. We have to figure out this business with the attack.

When we pull through the gates of the compound, my father’s car is already in the driveway.

“Does he know what happened?” I ask as we pull up.

“Your father was the first to know.”

“And have we contacted the driver’s family?”

Nicolo’s face darkens. “Tommaso. Been with us five years. Has a kid on the way.”

I nod once. “Make sure his wife gets double the usual payment. And set up a trust for the child. Education, everything.”